


One Hope

by AtoTheBean



Series: A Dribble of Drabbles — 00Q Last Drabble Writer Standing [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23991982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: I wait.
Relationships: James Bond & Q
Series: A Dribble of Drabbles — 00Q Last Drabble Writer Standing [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1308389
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33
Collections: MI6 Cafe Last Drabble Writer Standing





	One Hope

**Author's Note:**

> 2019 Week 3 Prompt: 250 words; Acrostic format spelling out ‘resurrection’ (First word of first paragraph must start with r, first word of second paragraph must start with e, and so on); theme is also resurrection. (The official word counter for LDWS and AO3 use different algorythms, so this did count as 250).

Regret is the worst emotion. Unprofessional, M would have said. _Inevitable_ feels more on point.

Eleven o’clock in a sterile waiting room, unsure of basic questions of life and death, I think of words not spoken. Looks shared, but not acted on.

So clear in my mind... all my opportunities. Over comms. In the branch. Heading out at the end of the day in the same direction, only to turn away. Avoid temptation. Turn away from him and toward the cold safety of solitude.

Useless now to imagine "what if?" How I might have changed his sadness (and mine) by acknowledging what I _knew_ was there, but feared reaching for.

Resurrection is my hobby.

Resurrection is my curse.

Even so, I wait in an antiseptic room, hoping against hope that Q will follow my example.

Come back from the dead. The presumed dead. Back from the missing, then found (injured... beaten). Back from the shadows and pain and _who-gives-a-fuck-why-should-I_?

To the work. To the family that isn't family. To the battles and camaraderie and late hours, exhausted and triumphant. To the old agent who wants another shot. A chance to say, "I just need one thing," and have him know it's _him_.

I sit — cold, bone-tired, frightened for perhaps the first time in _years_ — indulging in a hope.

One hope.

No. One _need_. For a snarky, willful boffin to fight his way back from the deep, dark dreamlessness, rise up, open his bright, clever eyes... and say _yes_.


End file.
